


Foundling

by greeneyedfeelsmonster



Series: Agents of Medieval Fantasy [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Gen, HYDRA is an actual hydra, Melinda May is a badass in every reality, POV Alternating, Skoulson - Freeform, Skye is magical, and also possibly dragons, eventually, here there be ships, i told you this AU would get ridiculous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2718956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greeneyedfeelsmonster/pseuds/greeneyedfeelsmonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sir Phillip, Earl of Coul and commander of the King's Shield, finds a young woman breaking into his office and looking through secret documents, and offers her a job.</p><p>Takes place in the same universe as The Knight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What?

**Author's Note:**

> Gen for now but will probably go up to Mature at some point.
> 
> Comments/reviews welcome, and if you like it please nag me to write more because I am an awful person who abandons her fics before they get interesting.
> 
> And no, lawyerbots, I do not own any of these characters.

Clouds hung low over the town, blending seamlessly into the layer of fog coating the castle walls with beads of moisture. Sir Phillip leaned his forehead against the wall before him, cool stone soothing the ache in his head. The hour was late enough that even the taverns had grown quiet, and were it not for fear of the steadily worsening nightmares that had plagued him for the last fortnight, he would happily have seized the chance for rest. At the same time that his nightmares had begun, the days and nights had grown unseasonably cold, and that disturbed him almost as much as the dreams themselves. The Hydra’s power was growing, and quickly.

In his worry Sir Phillip had begun pacing the battlements at night—much to the consternation of the sentries, who were rather unnerved by his presence (though they were far too well-trained to show it, and may all gods everywhere bless General May for _that_ small miracle). By way of apology he had taken to bringing them covered mugs of hot, brothy soup, which did much to soothe their discomfiture, so that now when they passed on their rounds they would often give him a nod or a murmured greeting. As he stood with his head pressed to the stone, one paused and came to him, asking in a soft voice if he needed assistance. Sir Phillip turned and offering a tired smile thanked him, but sent him on his way. The guard left, but glanced back often, and rounding the corner to meet the next guard gestured toward Sir Phillip. The other nodded and they both resumed walking.

He gave a mirthless laugh. The secret of his nightmares was closely guarded, but it was apparent to all those close to him that he was troubled. Now even the sentries were acting like nursemaids. Well, let them hover. Likely it was for the best, so long as they kept their attention trained outside the walls as well as ins—

There was someone inside. He blinked and rubbed his eyes to clear his vision, but when he opened them again the intruder was still there. And he knew it must be an intruder, for a person who had leave to enter the castle grounds would not creep about, dodging between bushes, looking around corners, zigzagging through open spaces. None of the sentries seemed to have noticed, but he didn’t blame them; had Sir Phillip not been looking in exactly the right place at exactly the right time, not even he would have seen them through the fog. He opened his mouth to raise the alarm, then stopped. Better to capture spies and learn what they were after than scare them off or have some overzealous guard kill them with a crossbow. 

The girl (for so he deemed the intruder after following her through four corridors and up three flights of stairs—and he was very curious indeed as to how she happened to know her way around so well) paused outside Sir Phillip’s chambers long enough to press her hand against the locked door. There was a click, loud in the empty corridor, and she opened the door and entered. Lips pressed into a thin line, Sir Phillip followed.

He watched her make straight for the (also locked) book press where he kept the royal records and correspondence, repeated the trick she’d used on the door, and without pausing to read the titles took out a ledger marked _Magical Births and Deaths—Unconfirmed_ , along with an unmarked leather folder that he knew contained sensitive correspondence between the previous head of the King’s Shield and his informants _._ A soft yellow light sprang to life in her palm as she deposited the papers on his desk, opening the folder and beginning to leaf through the book, looking back and forth between them.

He’d seen enough. Sir Phillip closed the door with a snap, and she froze, her light flaring and escaping the fist she tried to close on it.

“Is there something I can help you find, Miss?” he said with a bland smile. “Though it might be easier to do it during the day, and not in secret.”

Slowly she turned around, and Sir Phillip found himself looking into a pair of dark, intelligent eyes. Her stillness reminded him of a frightened rabbit; but there was a defiant lift to her chin and she met his eyes unflinching. He revised his assessment of her age; she was young, certainly, but no mere girl had eyes like that. “If you saw what I was doing, then you know why I did not ask before doing it.”

“Indeed yes,” he said. “Your petition would have been denied without consideration, and you would have been beaten for the asking; but to look upon these documents without leave is death, and I am curious why you would risk death rather than a lashing.”

“It was not the lashing I wished to avoid,” she replied, “but rather the denial.”

“And what is so important to you that you would rather die than be denied?”

At this she fell silent, and eyed him suspiciously, and that more than anything told him he was not dealing with a spy. Suddenly he rounded the desk and sat, and sighing tiredly scrubbed a hand across his face. Then studying her closely he took note of the ragged but clean tunic and trousers, straight spine, dark hair unevenly cut, carefully hidden vulnerability revealed by her posture as she perched cautiously on the edge of his desk—and realized with a start that he recognized her. “Are we known to each other? You seem familiar.”

Taken off guard by the sudden shift, she stammered, “Yes. Well, no. That is, I know you—Sir Phillip, Earl of Coul, commander of the network of spies known as the King’s Shield, though that rank isn’t widely known. You—I work in the library.”

“Your name?”

She hesitated, then answered, “Skye, my lord.”

“And what was it you were willing to risk the noose for, Skye?”

Once more she hesitated, searching his face. “You’ll not believe me.”

“And that would be worse than being hanged?”

“I’ll be hanged anyway, won’t I?”

“Not if I decide otherwise.”

Skye slumped a little, looking away and wrapping her arms protectively around her middle. “I want to know who I am. Where I come from. Who my parents are, or were.”

“And why did you think that information could be found be here? There are many orphans in this country.”

She lifted her eyes, and in them was a look at once hurt and so fierce he half-expected something to burst into flame. “I knew you’d not believe me.”

“Did I not believe you, Miss, you would already be under arrest,” he said, and out of habit began shuffling the papers she’d been rifling. “I can still have you arrested, if you’d like, but I would rather not. I’m far too tired.”

“I’ll keep that one to myself, shall I?”

He looked up and found that she was smiling. “Yes,” he said, surprised into a laugh, “Yes, I would appreciate it if you did.”

She seemed to make a decision then, and spoke informally. “Nothing about my past makes sense and I’ve looked everywhere else.” She indicated the ball of light still hovering at her shoulder and nodded toward the ledger. “That seemed a reasonable place to look, and the letters—when I was young I kept getting moved from place to place, but I could never figure out why until I started working in the library here, where I found a reference to the State’s policy on children with magic, and I thought—I thought, if I was a foundling, and I showed signs of having magic, wouldn’t that be something for the King’s Shield to handle?” She shrugged. “So. Are you going have me hanged?”

He leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully, and shook his head. “How would you like a job?”

“ _What_?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May makes some very good points. Morse is smug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> agggh this is super short but it didn't fit with anything else sorry D:

“This is most unwise.”

Sir Phillip ran a hand through his hair, which was already sticking up in all different directions from the first few times he’d done it. He sat behind his desk, the ledger and papers Skye had attempted to steal spread around him, while before him paced an agitated General May. “So you have stated,” he said. “Repeatedly. And under normal circumstances, I would agree, but these are not normal circumstances.”

“Of that I am well aware. But do you not think such a time calls for more wisdom, not less?”

“It is not a lack of wisdom that drives me, but urgency. Lengthy deliberations as to Skye’s status are a luxury we cannot afford.”

“Do you even know who she is? She—“

“No,” he said, cutting her off. “And neither does she.”

“And are you aware of what she does in her spare time?”

“Aside from the pamphlets, you mean?” At the general’s raised eyebrows he sighed. “Do you think me wholly incautious? I had Morse investigate; it was not difficult to connect her to the Rising Tide. Skye made no secret of her views when I questioned her about it.”

May ceased her pacing and looked at him incredulously. “ _Views?_ What she writes is treason!”

“Not anymore. Or have you forgotten?”

“ _My_ memory is perfectly intact, thank you,” she said, and he winced. “It is my common sense that is offended.”

“It is not your common sense, however, that dictates law. Only the king does that. And the king,” he continued, “has declared that his people be allowed to say and write what they wish about him.”

“ _That_ was also ill-advised.”

Sir Phillip smiled slightly. “A year ago those words would have been grounds for arrest.”

May rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth quirked up in silent acknowledgment of the point. “You are trying to change the subject.”

“I rather thought I was succeeding.”

“Phillip,” she said, and sat across from him, looking at him gravely. “Why do you trust this girl? By her own admission she is not in full control of her abilities. You of all people know how dangerous that is.”

“And when was it that we began treating the gifted as nothing more than a threat?” He paused, sighing, and when he spoke again his tone was as serious as hers. “I sense no falsehood from her, and I feel—no, I _know—_ she has some role to play in the upcoming battle. At the very least her talents will prove useful.”

“That is well,” she said, “But I cannot share your certainty. One can speak only truth and still be false.”

“Then I will take her under my protection. Will that satisfy you?”

The general closed her eyes for a moment. “You know full well that it will not, my friend,” she said. “But it will at least satisfy the law should anything happen.”

“Good. That’s settled, then.”

Shaking her head, she moved toward the door, then paused and looked back at him. “Are you certain that this girl’s abilities are the only reason you so adamantly defend her? I for one am not.” With that she turned and left, and her words echoed in his mind long after the sound of her footsteps had faded from his ears. Which, for the record, did _not_ turn pink.

 

“Are you feverish?”

The question made him jump, knocking over the bottle of ink he'd just stoppered. “Morse! Don’t do that!”

The blonde soldier plopped unceremoniously into the seat so recently vacated by the general. “Apologies, sir. You sent for me?”

Puzzled, Sir Phillip shook his head. “I did not. It’s just as well you’ve come, though. I heard about the tournament.”

Morse grinned unrepentantly. “I was wondering when you’d ask about it.”

“Was it truly necessary to draw so much attention? My orders were fairly clear, I thought.”

The grin vanished. “The situation changed. Ward was there.”

Sir Phillip dropped his head into his hands with a groan. “And it was the only way to get away without killing him. I assume he followed you?”

“Yes. I ambushed him as he tried to catch up but he got away.”

“That is ill news.”

“I should have caught him,” she said.

“It is likely, but there is no point in dwelling on should-haves.”

“Yes, sir.” She stood to leave and he held up a hand. “Was there something else?”

“Be careful with the Princess.”

She acknowledged this with an airy wave, and though her back was to him Sir Phillip was almost certain the grin was back. He pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping that was the last maddening conversation he’d have that day.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> May is terrifying; Skye meets the princess.

To the outward senses, the library was a peaceful place. Sunlight filtered through tall mullioned windows on either side of the room, and streaming through the aisles shone back from the brass and polished wood of hundreds of shelves and book presses. Dust motes caught by sunbeams transformed into fairy lights, and the scents of vellum, ink, and leather drifted in the warm rising air alongside them.

Peaceful was not the word Skye would use to describe the place. Invigorating, perhaps; alive, definitely. She perceived the information in the books as a kind of hum in her mind; she did not herself possess the knowledge, but if something was there that she was looking for, she would find it. When she was on the right track her mind rang, and the problem and knowledge that she was seeking created a sort of groove that she could follow; and when she found the right thing, everything slotted into place like two voices singing different notes perfectly in tune. The library made _sense,_ and there was very little else about her life that did.

In the midst of reorganizing one of the lesser-used sections, Skye grabbed a book from the top of one of the piles around her and flipped open the cover to make certain it was the right one, thinking about her baffling meeting with Sir Phillip the night before. She didn’t have a great deal of experience with nobles, but she was fairly certain the typical response to catching someone trying to steal things from your chambers was to have them _arrested_ , not offer them a job. Mounting an unsteady-looking ladder, she climbed nearly to the ceiling to place the book on a high shelf, knowing instinctively where it went.

Sir Phillip was not at all as she’d expected him to be. She’d seen him, of course—she’d had to in order to memorize his habits—but only ever from a distance. Before last night she hadn’t been able to see the thoughtfulness in his eyes, or the subtle humor in the quirk of his lips; though even from far away she’d spotted the exhaustion in his bearing. Still, she’d been shocked to see it up close, and couldn’t help wondering whether she should chalk up his decision not to have her executed to poor judgment due to lack of sleep. She climbed down and picked up another book, then jumped when a footstep sounded behind her. A low rumble shook the shelves nearby, and the book she’d just placed fell over.

“Are you Skye?”

Heart beating rapidly, she turned around, smothering a yelp when she saw who it was. “That’s me,” she said, lifting her chin.

General May looked thoroughly unimpressed. “Were it up to me you would be in a cell,” she said without preamble.

The general was just as terrifying as her reputation indicated. Skye fought to stay calm. “Is there something I can help you find?”

May ignored her question. “Against my counsel, Sir Phillip has taken you under his protection, so I cannot officially pursue action against you without also indicting him. Rest assured, however, that if you are hiding something I _will_ find out.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and strode away. All the air seemed to follow her out.

Slowly and deliberately, Skye leaned her back against a book press, sliding down it to sit on the floor. Though it was covered with rushes, she could still feel the cool of the stone through her trousers. _His protection…_ if so much as a hint of suspicion fell on her, Sir Phillip’s life would be forfeit. Her chest constricted, and tears stung her eyes, and Skye felt herself caught between abject dismay and an aching gratitude, as though she’d just been given a taste of something she hadn’t even known she craved. Never in her life had anyone displayed such trust in her. Gods above, the man didn’t even know her, and he’d just put his life in her hands.

She didn’t know how long she sat there before she heard light footsteps approaching, followed by a soft voice above her head. “Are you all right?”

Skye looked up and received her second shock in as many hours. “Highness!”

Raising a hand, the princess forestalled Skye’s abortive attempt to stand, instead settling on the floor beside her. Skye watched in mild horror as dirt smudged her embroidered skirt.

Seeing her expression, the princess smiled. “I spoke with Sir Phillip,” she said by way of explanation. “He thought we should meet.”

Skye blinked. “Did he tell you…?”

“That he caught you sneaking into his chambers? Oh, yes. I’m quite impressed actually, I mean, he has one of those new locks that are supposed to be impossible to pick, and only a few people even know about the _existence_ of those records, much less where he keeps them. I can see why he recruited you. Can I call you Skye?”

“I don’t have any other name,” she choked out.

“Right then.” The princess held out her hand. “Call me Jemma.”

A slow smile began spreading across Skye’s face, and taking the princess’s hand she gave an awkward little bow. “Pleased to meet you, Jemma. If you don’t mind me asking—“

“How much do I know about the King’s Shield?”

Skye nodded.

“Not everything, but Sir Phillip keeps me informed of things he thinks I’ll find interesting. It saves him the trouble of trying to fend me off,” said Jemma, smiling; then sobering slightly she continued. “There’s a storm coming, Skye. It has everyone worried.”

“I know. I’ve been feeling it for months.”

Jemma nodded as if in confirmation, then smiled and stood, brushing off her skirt. As Skye scrambled up after her, she said, “I’m going to take a walk. Would you like to join me?”

 

Two hours later Skye sat on the edge of the bed in her brand-new bedchamber, which Jemma had ordered once Skye mentioned she’d been sleeping in the stable. It was right around the corner from Sir Phillip’s rooms—“For convenience,” said Jemma, though she failed to say whose. Jemma had walked her all around the castle, pointing out different nobles and supplying her with stories about each one. (Lady Hartley, for instance, had once been attacked by two highwaymen while traveling near the border, and had not only fought them off but somehow convinced them to work for her, and they'd been fantastically loyal to her ever since. Jemma related this anecdote with more than a hint of awe, which Skye felt was entirely justified.) They'd wound up in the corridor she'd snuck into the night before. It felt a little strange to be walking down it during the day.

Sir Phillip happened to emerge from his chambers when they passed. “Oh good,” he said distractedly. “You’ve met.” He took a few hurried steps in the opposite direction, then stopped short and turned around. “Skye,” he said, “I’d like a word. Where will you be in…” he looked up and moved his fingers like he was counting “…three hours?”

“Back in the library, my lo—“ she started, but Jemma cut her off.

“She’ll be in her room, going through the clothes I’m giving her. If she wants them, that is,” said the princess. “Do you want them?”

Skye blinked at her. “Well… yes, all right.” She turned to Sir Phillip, who had been watching her face with an odd expression. “Apparently I’ll be in my room.”

“And what room would that be?”

“The empty one just down the hall,” answered Jemma.

Sir Phillip looked thoughtful. “Yes," he said. "Yes, that will do nicely.” He swept a bow toward Jemma, but when he straightened up he was staring at Skye with that same thoughtful expression. Before she could say anything, he’d turned and left.

 

Skye flopped back on her bed, sinking into the fluffy mattress. She glanced at the position of the sun; about a quarter of an hour remained until her meeting with the earl. She’d just finished going through the clothes. They were well-made but plain—which suited Skye just fine—and she found herself wondering what use the princess had had for them, as they were just the right length for Skye, who was a little taller than Jemma.

Idly she summoned her light and started bouncing it between her hand and the ceiling, firmly tamping down the hope that had begun to grow inside her. She would not get attached.

“Well, Skye,” she said grimly, “Whatever else happens, at least you won’t be bored.”


End file.
